


Friends That Say (You're Not Alone)

by ProsperDemeter



Series: 20 Days of Holiday Fics [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne Friendship, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Gen, Pre-Robin Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProsperDemeter/pseuds/ProsperDemeter
Summary: “We are just finishing up in the kitchen.”“Oh. I can wait here?” We. Did that mean Alfred and someone else or Alfred and Bruce? Did Bruce even spend time in the kitchen?Alfred waved a dismissive hand. “Not at all. Master Richard has been very excited to meet you.”Richard. The kid. Richard Grayson.Clark didn’t feel ready to meet the child that Bruce took in.What if he was a mini-Bruce? What in the world would Clark do then?
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Clark Kent
Series: 20 Days of Holiday Fics [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035498
Comments: 39
Kudos: 368





	Friends That Say (You're Not Alone)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 10! 
> 
> I completely and legitimately love this one folks. It's wholesome 💙
> 
> A few notes: I aged down Dick to five here, so he wouldn't be Robin for a few years yet. He also doesn't have English as his first language and uses a few Romanian words.

Clark hadn’t spent much time around Wayne Manor. Bruce tended to keep to his city himself and he wasn’t the sort to ask any one person for help of any kind. Clark and Diana had strong armed their way into his life, but while Clark wouldn’t hesitate to call Bruce one of his closest friends it was terribly obvious to anyone watching that Bruce didn’t _do_ friends. And if he _did_ then Clark Kent was the complete opposite of someone he would choose. Diana Prince, beautiful, smart and _badass_ Diana Prince, though, was the exact sort that Bruce Wayne was known to spend time around. 

So, perhaps, Clark was a little worried as to why Bruce had invited him over. 

Not to the Batcave, even. But to the _Manor_ . To the place up the elevator shaft that Clark had stepped foot inside _once_ as a reporter and then never again. 

It had to mean _something_ , right? 

“No,” Diana said dryly from where she sat at the Watchtower computer, clearly only paying Clark the barest minimum of attention. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

He sent her a look that danced on the border of annoyed and panicked. She laughed in his face. His cheeks flushed. “ _Diana_ , this is _Bruce_ we’re talking about.” 

“Relax, Kal.” She tapped her nails on the desk before deciding exactly what she wanted to say. “I’m sure it just has something to do with the kid.” 

The kid. 

_That_ was a possibility Clark actually hadn’t thought much on. 

He, actually, had every specific, sporadic, and mumbled thoughts on the _kid_. 

For one, Bruce could barely take care of himself with the help of Alfred, let alone a child. For _another_ , he was only just past his mid-twenties and the _kid_ \- according to Diana - had just turned five. That would mean that Bruce would have been _twenty-one_ when he was born. Which, if anyone bothered to ask Clark, was much too young to be involved in the life of a child. 

And it wasn’t that Clark doubted Bruce’s capabilities. It was just… 

Well, the man was _Batman_ not _Batdad_. Did Bruce, with his own troubled childhood and emotional complexities, have what it would take to raise a semi-stable child? Or was this all simply a phase for him? It was a terrible thought, and Bruce had proven time and again that he wasn’t the persona he put on for the general public, but sometimes Clark still worried. He was still someone that had a rich, unusual, and relatively comfortable childhood. Sure, he had his own traumas, Clark wasn’t doubting that, but he hadn’t had to worry about foster care or social workers or, god forbid, a complete shift from the life he had been living. He had stayed in the same house, the same bed, the same school. 

It stayed with him for the majority of his flight over to Bruce’s home and he landed just outside of the big, wrought iron gates, to walk up. There was a chill in the air that was synonymous with both Gotham and Gotham in winter but Clark was barely bothered by it. Still, he pulled the jacket he had purposely packed (to look as normal as possible when visiting), tighter over his shoulders and began the trek up the long, winding driveway. Off to the left, about halfway to the Manor, was the Wayne family graveyard. It was something ancient and old that Clark had only seen at the homes of the wealthy and looked obviously well maintained. There were two new stones there, sitting beside Thomas and Martha Wayne’s, all four with new, still green wreaths and the new ones even had candy canes still in the wrapper taped to their front. John Grayson. Mary Grasyon. Clark’s heart ached at the sudden memory of _why_ they were there. 

Of _why_ Bruce had even taken in the kid in the first place. 

He couldn't even begin to imagine the sort of things both the kid and Bruce had to be going through right then. Bruce had been his primary caregiver for the better part of a year and the wreath was a gut wrenching reminder, to Clark, exactly what sort of challenges the Bat had to be facing. Not only was it another year without his own parents, but the first year that his new ward had to spend without his own. And a five-year-old’s grief could work in mysterious ways. 

Clark pulled his gaze away after only a moment of respectful silence, wondered what would have transpired had the event happened just a month earlier in Metropolis instead of Gotham, and then told himself that things were, perhaps, meant to fall the way that they had. Or so Diana would have said solemnly and reminded him that even as the Superman he couldn’t save everyone even if he wanted to. That wasn’t his job. Sometimes the more important thing for a hero to do was to not get involved in the first place. 

With his head down he completed his journey to the dark wooden door and pressed the stark white doorbell. 

Surprisingly the door opened only a moment later. “Mister Kent, how nice of you to join us.” 

Clark couldn’t help smiling at the older butler, and he stepped inside the warm house only once Alfred gestured to him to do so. He wasn’t wearing his pristine, white gloves, but rather an apron tied expertly around his trim waist. On his chin was a splotch of flour and it was the messiest Clark had ever seen the man that had raised Bruce. He wondered if Alfred had been the sort to play with his charge in the backyard or if Bruce had been relegated simply to quieter activities growing up. 

He tried not to stare too much, but Alfred had clearly been responsible for at least part of the World’s Greatest Detective’s legendary paranoia, because he instantly reached for a handkerchief to wipe the flour off. “It’s nice to see you too, Alfred.” He had called him Mister Pennyworth exactly once and Alfred had deemed that title entirely unnecessary - Diana called it his stamp of approval for Clark’s friendship. It apparently meant a lot. 

“We are just finishing up in the kitchen.” 

“Oh. I can wait here?” We. Did that mean Alfred and someone else or Alfred and Bruce? Did Bruce even spend time in the kitchen? 

Alfred waved a dismissive hand. “Not at all. Master Richard has been _very_ excited to meet you.” 

Richard. The kid. Richard Grayson. 

Clark didn’t feel ready to meet the child that Bruce took in. 

What if he was a mini-Bruce? What in the world would Clark do then?

Still, he followed. He had learned rather early on in his friendship with Bruce that one didn’t simply _turn down_ Alfred Pennyworth. Bruce was one thing but Alfred was something entirely different. He walked behind, tried to keep his feet quiet on the floor in case he stepped too hard, and noticed all of the little signs of life that were placed in corners that hadn’t been there before. There was a hand drawn picture in messy crayon by the bowl that was meant to hold keys - brightly colored and with a clearly labeled _Bruce_ , _Alfred_ , and _Miss Selina_ under the silhouettes they were supposed to represent. The figure of Bruce was smiling. 

There was also a smaller pair of shoes by the door, in line and slightly tilted beside Bruce’s. They had velcro straps and lime green dinosaurs on the side and what looked like light up heels. There was also a small, red puffer coat in the closet and it stood out among the wool and leather that Bruce typically kept in there. There was a plastic play kitchen pushed against the wall of the sitting room and a half squished teddy bear tucked under a Superman - _Superman_ \- blanket on Bruce’s leather couch. Bruce had set up a smaller Christmas tree in there as well, far enough away from the fireplace that they didn’t have to worry about it catching fire, and he had hung _stockings_ for all of the house’s occupants over the mantle. 

Absolutely none of that was as shocking as the sight Clark was greeted with when he entered into the kitchen though. Or the _sounds_. 

Laughter, loud, unashamed, and _bright_ was the first thing that assaulted Clark’s eardrums. And then it was the answering, softer, but just as startling noise of Bruce’s laugh. Clark had only heard that a few times during the time he had known the man. Alfred turned the corner and beelined for the oven and Clark stood, shocked, in the doorway. 

The pristine Wayne Manor master kitchen was a _mess_. 

And Bruce Wayne, Batman, the man that put fear into criminals across the galaxy, had sugar and _flour_ in his hair. 

He looked like someone Clark had never imagined before. He was smiling, for one, and Clark found that actually made Bruce look his age of twenty-six. The lines by his eyes weren’t caused by stress, for once, but rather by the laughter that was pulling itself out of his throat. He had an arm full of a child, and his grip - that Clark had seen do considerable damage - was loosely held in case he needed to let go. He was holding the child’s hand in his own and helping him guide a steady line of icing over the side of a gingerbread house and… he looked _happy_ . Genuinely _happy_. 

That was something Clark hadn’t seen his friend look like once. 

He could have melted. 

Had he stepped into some sort of wormhole and been transported to an alternate universe? 

“Good afternoon, Clark.” Bruce greeted, glancing up at him all of once before turning back to the task at hand. 

“It needs a door!” The boy - Richard - insisted and then hopped out of Bruce’s arms to stop only a few feet away from Clark’s toes. He tilted his head and studied Clark with a much more intense look than he was used to, his ink black hair falling into his Kansas blue sky eyes. His skin was a shade darker than Bruce’s and his nose had a little line in the middle that told Clark it had been broken once. He looked at him as though he could see into his soul and then his face split into a giant, toothy, smile. He shot forward, grabbed Clark’s hand with both of his small ones and pulled him over to the gingerbread house that him and Bruce had been working on. “Do you want to…” He sent a look at Bruce that held a question Clark couldn’t find. 

“Help.” Bruce supplied. 

“Help! Do you want to help?” The more he spoke the more Clark picked up on his accent. It wasn’t thick as much as nuanced. He had clearly grown up around english speakers but his pronunciation was anything but native. Clark supposed, then, that it had been the child’s primary language since moving into Wayne Manor. 

“I would…” He slowly lowered himself down into an empty chair beside Bruce and watched the boy buzz around the house. He shared a cautious look with his friend, noted the raised eyebrow prompting an answer and nodded. “I would _love_ to.” 

“Grozav!” Richard ducked under Bruce’s arm until he was bracketed by them again, leaned back against the older man’s chest for just a moment and then grabbed the white, paste like icing to stuff into Clark’s hand. “You can glue?” 

“Clark is an excellent gluer.” Bruce said lowly into the boy’s ear and danced his fingers over his side until he giggled for just a moment. “Aren’t you, Clark?” He heard the warning clear as day. 

“I can guarantee I will try my best.” Clark assured. 

“Yes! That is best!” The boy’s finger hovered, just a moment, in front of Clark’s nose before he turned back to his work. “My name is Richard but you can call me Dick.” 

_That_ was an old nickname. He glanced at Bruce and watched as the young man peered over the boy’s shoulder to watch him pick the perfect rectangle of homemade gingerbread to put on as the door. “It’s very nice to meet you, Dick.” 

“You too! Bruce says you’re his bestest friend.” Was that _color_ on the Dark Knight’s cheeks? Clark pursed his lips to keep from laughing. “Not like Miss Selina is because you don’t stay nights.” 

It was _definitely_ color on Bruce’s cheeks. He ducked his head with a sheepish chuckle and tickled the boy’s ribs again. “What did I say?”

“It’s not em… em… em…” 

“Look at his face, Dickie,” Bruce turned the boy’s cheeks gently until he was blinking up at Clark with his wide smile. Pushed cheek to cheek like they were, they looked almost like father and son. “He’s going to think he’s my best friend now.” 

“But you’re _his,_ right Mister Clark?” 

How could anyone say _no_ to that face? “Of course, Bruce is one of my closest friends.” Not that Clark was lying when he said it, but it was much more cavalier than Bruce or Clark ever was with one another. He wished, belatedly, that Diana was there to clip them both on the back of the head and wow the child with stories of Themyscira. She would _love_ him. Diana loved children, perhaps, more than both of them combined. “Do you have a best friend, Dick?” 

“Zitka!” He smiled wider and clapped with the name. 

Bruce looked saddened, for a moment, at the admittance. Curious, Clark tried to gleam anything he could from his expression. “Back to the door, chum.” 

Chum. _That_ was also old. Dick listened, though. “I miss Zitka.” Dick said softly and blinked several times before sniffling softly. 

“I know, Dickie.” Bruce rubbed a hand on his back and pressed a _kiss_ to the top of his head. 

“Can I get baby Zitka, please?” 

“Go ahead, chum.” 

He ducked out of Bruce’s arm and ran off, little legs propelling him as quickly as they could out of the kitchen and up the stairway. Clark sat back in his seat and brushed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

Bruce shrugged. “Grief doesn’t have a schedule, Clark.” He stood up and stretched an arm above his head to stretch and then turned quickly for his back to crack. Someone so young shouldn’t be cracking that much. “He’ll be okay.” 

He would know, wouldn’t he? But was Bruce’s sort of _okay_ enough for a five year old child? Clark opened his mouth to ask and when a small rock collided with his legs and he stumbled purely out of habit. “Baby Zitka!” Dick, who came up to just under Clark’s knees, held up a giant, grey elephant. It looked like a circus elephant, with its blue, red, and gold stitch on tapestry saddle draped over it’s back. It was clearly well loved, one of the eyes sewed back on by what Clark was sure was Alfred’s skilled craftsmanship. 

Bruce snorted and Alfred appeared by his elbow with a wet cloth. “Master Richard,” Alfred advised. “Care to help me move your house to the counter and set the table for lunch?” 

“Okay!” He tugged sharply on Clark’s sleeve, though, until he had kneeled down in front of him. He held the stuffed elephant in front of his face so that only his eyes were visible over it’s girth. “Hold baby Zitka?” 

Clark was a puddle at his feet. “I’ll keep her safe.” 

“Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

“Bruce?” 

“I’ll make sure of it.” Bruce assured and ruffled the ink hair atop the boy’s head. “Go help Alfred.” 

Clark cradled the stuffed elephant as though it was the most precious item he had ever been given and his cheeks lit up in flame at the way Bruce was watching him. “You’re good with him.” Clark said after a moment. 

Bruce shrugged as though the compliment meant nothing to him. “I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing.” He admitted, though it was softer than the normal volume for people to hear. He nodded to the sitting room and when Clark sat in the chair across from his it was with the stuffed elephant sitting comfortably on his lap. “His favorite hero is Superman.” An odd sort of pride filled Clark then. He knew what it meant that _Bruce_ allowed that to be admitted to him _by_ him. 

“I’m sure he loves Batman too.” Clark reassured. 

Bruce gave him another curious look and then shook his head. “Batman was there when his parents died. He doesn’t have any good memories around Batman.” 

Whenever Clark thought it impossible for Bruce to make his heart ache anymore than it already did for him, he somehow managed to prove him wrong. “Bruce…” 

“It’s better that way.” Bruce waved off his concern. “The two of us are completely separate in his mind, now. It makes him less likely to get involved as he gets older.” 

He had a point, even if Clark didn’t like it. He stroked a hand down the elephant’s fur and looked at the tree. “Did you have to get all new ornaments for that thing?” 

Bruce’s lips pulled into his signature smirk and he lounged back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other. “We bought some new ones, but most of them were my mother’s.” 

He had dug out old family decorations to make the holiday a familiar and good one for the kid to enjoy. Clark never thought he would see the day. “I thought you didn’t do Christmas.” 

“ _He_ does.” Bruce nodded towards the kitchen where, if Clark allowed himself, he could hear Alfred telling Dick a story of _his_ younger days with a fondness the old man had only ever allowed Bruce. 

Clark looked back at his friend then, and watched as his shoulders jumped and then eased at Dick’s bright laughter. “You love him.” Clark observed and ignored the sharp look Bruce shot his way. “Fatherhood looks good on you, Bruce.” 

“I’m not his father.” Bruce argued pitifully. 

“As good as.” Clark amended. “He wanted to meet me?”

“I told him you know Superman,” Bruce filled in. 

Clark smiled, easy and wide. “You _talk_ about me.” 

“Don’t get an ego, Kent.”

“I’m your _best friend_.” 

“Clark.” 

“Alfie says wash your…” Dick skidded into the room and wagged his fingers when the word escaped him. “Maini.” 

“Why don’t you show Mister Clark where the bathroom is?” Bruce suggested. “Zitka can stay out here and watch the tree.” 

“Bine!” His little hands grabbed at Clark’s again and he stood with ease but made a show of grunting as his knees straightened. The little boy bent down, placed a loud kiss to the elephant’s head, and smiled brightly. “Be good, Zitka!”

Clark followed the little boy of the room, hunched slightly to accommodate the height difference. “I heard you like Superman.” Clark said while drying off his hands. 

Dick perked up, blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “I _love_ Superman!” 

His enthusiasm was contagious. “Would you like to meet him sometime?” 

His expression changed to that of shock. “Could I?!” 

“He’ll have to check in with Santa.” Clark tapped his chin. “But if you’ve been a good boy, I think he would _love_ to meet you and Zitka.” 

“And Bruce!” Dick begged. “Bruce _loves_ Superman too. He… he said that Superman is… is… very smart and nice.” 

“Do you know who else is?” Clark bent until he was closer to his height. Dick shook his head. “Batman.” His expression darkened, for a moment, and he hugged his arms around his waist. 

“Batman’s scary.” He said softly. 

“No,” Clark, without thinking, brushed a piece of hair off his forehead. Dick blinked up at him. “Batman just _looks_ scary. But he’s really a big softy.” 

“You know Batman too?” 

“I _do_.” Clark nodded and Dick’s mouth curled into a thoughtful frown. 

“Can you tell him a secret for me?” 

“Of course.” 

Dick bit at his lip before grabbing Clark’s shoulders with both his hands and standing up on his tip-toes to whisper in his ear. “Thank you for trying to catch mimi and papa.” Clark’s heart stuttered and he steadied the boy by his hips. And then he did something even more shocking and wrapped Clak’s neck in a tight hug. “Can you stay until bedtime?” 

Clark hugged back, careful not to hold too tight in case his strength betrayed him. He willed the tears that had started to sting the corners of his eyes away and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I’ll try.” 

“Can you tell me a Superman bedtime story?” 

“I can do you one better.” Clark assured and tweaked the boy’s nose when he pulled back. Dick smiled, all sadness from a moment before forgotten. “Have you ever heard the story of Nightwing and Flamebird?” He knew, of course, what the answer was. It was an old Kryptonian myth, there was no way that a child of earth would know the story. In fact, Clark had never even thought of telling it before. 

“Is it good?” 

“It’s Superman’s favorite.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Dick says a few words in Romanian here - sorry if they're wrong I have terrible translation skills. In order he says, great, hands, and okay.


End file.
